


Empty Chamber

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Community: angst_bingo, Future Character Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1064200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Bullets, pre-Last Stand of the Wreckers.  Angst bingo prompt 'bullet wounds' with a side order of friend betrayal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Chamber

“That everything?”

Ironfist sighed, looking at the small mound of stuff on the grav pallet.  “Everything I think I’ll need, yeah.” It wasn’t everything, not even close to half: most of what he owned, all his collectibles, his artifacts, were in deep storage or—and he tried not to think about this too much—destroyed back on Cybertron.  Either way, they weren’t going to be much use in the Wreckers, right?

The loadmaster nodded, stretching the cargo straps over it. “Good PX over at Igue Moor. Anything you forgot you can probably pick up there.” 

Ironfist nodded, numbly. He was really here; he was really doing this.  He was really standing in the Kimia airlock, leaving it for what he knew was forever.  It felt…weird. Different than it should feel, he thought.  Because it should feel, you know, exciting and he should feel something like daring and courage wash over him. He should feel, Ironfist figured, at least three times larger than he was, striding confidently into his slot on the Wreckers. The slot Prowl himself had approached him with, the slot Springer himself had commed him about.  Springer: you know, the most reputable leader of the Wreckers since Hyperion, and Impactor’s chosen successor and best lieutenant, doubtless sworn to a sacred bond to keep the Wreckers’ legends pure in Impactor’s honor.

He didn’t feel three times as big. He felt his usual size, maybe even a little smaller. And he didn’t feel a hot rush of heroic bravery sing through his neural circuitry: he felt a little cold, a little alone.

And a lot dying.

He tried to forget about it, the accident in the lab. Even now, he wasn’t sure how it had happened: Ironfist  wasn’t much of a front-line combat mech, but he’d handled guns before. He’d even designed Optimus’s own gun. He was no stranger to firearms and safety protocols. But somehow…

He must have gotten lazy, or sloppy, or…something. He must have been distracted, maybe thinking about Room 113, the Ethics Committee.  Something.  Maybe that memory, exactly what he’d been doing, had already fallen prey to the cerebroshell’s inexorable march to his neural cortex. 

Maybe it would eat more, on its way. And maybe, who knew, maybe he wouldn’t even feel bad about dying. Maybe he’d lose all his memories, all his capacity to feel, and death would just be a continual present, without pas, without future, sliding into darkness without all this weight of knowing exactly what it was, exactly how much he was losing. 

He felt his shoulders droop, turning to take one last look around Kimia. He knew the stats and the odds of survival among the Wreckers. He knew he wouldn’t be coming back.  It seemed…lonely, but then again, all new chapters felt that way, really. He knew enough from writing the Wreckers Declassified: you open a thick file, with no idea where it’s going, who is going to live or die. You just grab hold with both hands and get ready for a ride.  This was just a ride he couldn’t find the brakes for. 

“Hey! Thought I’d missed you!”  Brainstorm, clattering down the ramp, with that bustle of energy he always had with him—almost too alert to be real.  “Didn’t think I was going to let you go without saying a proper goodbye, right?”

“…right?” Actually, Ironfist hadn’t thought of it, wrapped up in his own thoughts, thinking about the things he’d leave behind, not the people.  He couldn’t shake the sudden feeling he’d done something wrong, there, too.

“Damn right!” Brainstorm said, nodding. “I’m gonna miss my Ethics Committee buddy. For a while there I thought you were gunning to get a plaque of your own.” 

Ironfist would never understand why Brainstorm found the plaque listing all the things he’d invented, tweaked or devised that were deemed unethical and thus banned from use to be such a point of pride.  Gideon’s Glue had been enough. The cerebrobullets had been the final blow.  “Yeah, well, you win.” He tried to pitch his voice to something light, probably missed it by a parsec.

“A noble surrender,” Brainstorm said, the suitcase’s chain rattling from his hand as he spread his arms wide.  He was always like this: sullen in defeat but boisterous in victory. It wasn’t—quite—gloating. 

And then Brainstorm threw his arms around Ironfist, pulling him into a hug so tight Ironfist felt their armor scrape.  “Got some bad news,” Brainstorm whispered, vocalizer against his audio.  “Or good news. Not sure.” 

“W-what?”  This hug was making him dizzy and it was only about half due to the tight embrace.

“The gun. You know, the gun. Been tampered with.” He tapped a knuckle lightly on Ironfist’s helm. “Not your fault. Thought you’d want to know.”

Want to know? Of course he did.

He thought he did.

But now, all he could think was that all that really did was shift the burden from him to someone else. Someone else who had access to his weapons locker.  Which meant….

“…Skyfall.”

Ironfist stepped back, rattled at his own words as the shuttle behind him gave the two-tone whistle, the sign for embarkation. “I have to go.”

A nod, against him, and then Brainstorm stepped away.  “Yeah. Anyway. Let me know how you want to handle it.” 

And that was the other thing. The ‘handling’.  Ironfist was still reeling under the betrayal of it all, his closest friend, now his murderer.  He’d almost rather be the one responsible, because now, well, someone had to do something.

“I need time to think.”

Brainstorm nodded. “Yeah, you let me know.  Only a communicube away and all that.”  He gave a jaunty salute, stepping back, shooing Ironfist toward the ramp. 

And Ironfist turned, his steps feeling ten times heavier than before as he moved up the grating of the ramp, heavy with another thing in his head he’d rather forget. 


End file.
